


Fringe

by i_am_deaded



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bisexual John Watson, Bisexual Male Character, First Kiss, First Meetings, Hair, Hair colour, John's Childhood, John's Hair, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, POV John Watson, Sherlock is a gay baby, Sherlock's Hair, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 18:12:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4189902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_am_deaded/pseuds/i_am_deaded
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Ever since John was little, people would look at him funny. Or more specifically, at his hair."</p><p>AU where you have a streak of your soulmate's hair colour and type in your own fringe. But not everyone has a soulmate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fringe

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little soulmate AU that popped into my head. Some inspiration from tumblr.  
> I might end up adding a smutty chapter(in which case the rating will change), but who knows.  
> *06/23/2015 Just a few teeny fixes after reading this over again and ew-ing at each mistake*
> 
> *07/04/2016 Wow, this story just hit 500 kudos and that just makes me so happy!! Thank you peeps so much!!*

 

Ever since John was little, people would look at him funny. Or more specifically, at his hair.

Six months after he was born, his mother noticed something strange about her son’s hair. While the majority of it appeared to be the dirty blonde that tended to run in the family, halfway to her son’s first birthday, she realised that one lock of hair in his fringe was darker than the rest. Much darker. She could barely contain her excitement, picking him up and showing him to his father and three-year-old sister. His Fringe had started to come in!

John, years later at the young age of four, asked his mother about this when he noticed in the mirror that his hair looked different at the front. He had been brushing his teeth like his father had told him to before they would be heading to the park that day. His mother was in his room, gathering up his sheets for their bi-weekly washing when he came up to her.

“Mummy,” he said quietly, tugging at his Fringe, “Why is this part darker?”

She turned, hiding her astonishment at his presence, putting the sheets into a laundry bin. “Johnny, aren’t you supposed to be brushing your teeth?”

“I’m done,” he replied, looking away shyly.

His mother took him in for a moment before sitting on the sheet-less bed and patting the spot beside her. John walked over and scrambled onto the bed in a sitting position, then stared at his lap.

She decided that it was time for an explanation. She took her son’s hand. “Johnny, love, I want you to listen to me carefully, alright?”

He nodded, peeking up at her out of the corner of his eye.

“You are a good boy, and Dad and I both love you and Harriet very much. You are special, very special, and some people might see your hair and become sad, because you have something they might not.”

“What do you mean, Mummy? Why will they be sad?” This time John turned his little face up to his mother’s.

Her other hand came up to stroke his Fringe, trying to find the right words for her son. “This part of your hair means something very important, that there is someone in the world that is very special to you. And when you’re older, you’ll want to find that special person.”

He scrunched up his face in confusion. “But who is it? Are they nice?”

“I’m sure they will be, Johnny love. When you meet them, you will love them with all your heart.”

“Like you love me?” John asked.

“Yes,” replied his mother with a smile. “Of course. And like I love your sister, and your father. I love you with all my heart.” She placed a light kiss on his temple.

“Oh, Okay!” John said, his face lighting up. “I should probably go downstairs now, Dad said as soon as I’m done to go down and we’ll go. Bye Mummy!” He jumped down from the bed and dashed out the door without a glance back.

John’s mother chuckled to herself, smiling in earnest. She hoped he would understand, and maybe someday she could explain a bit better about the prospect of soulmates. Right now though, he was young enough for that not to matter.

                                                                                             

  

* * *

 

 

When John started primary school, he noticed that not many of the other kids had hair like his. Two other, both girls, had the same type of thing. On had light brown hair with bleach blonde at her Fringe while the other girl’s was dark with a slightly lighter shade at her’s. None were as obvious as John’s Fringe, which was chestnut brown with a slight curl to his strait-ish, dirty blonde hair.

He was asked about it many times by curious students, many of them saying how cool it was or that they wanted hair like his too. John was proud and told them what his mother had told him – that it meant that there was a special person in the world just for him. They Ooh’d and Awe’d about his story, but as life went on and classes changed, people stopped asking. And since John wasn’t the type of boy to show off for no reason, he never mentioned his hair unless asked.

Unfortunately, just having strange hair like his made his situation obvious.

People stopped asking, only giving him looks that turned from mild awe to confusion to disappointment.

When he graduated from Secondary school, he had only met a handful of people who had curly, chestnut brown hair. Out of those, only one girl had a noticeable Fringe, but it was a dark red. Definitely not sandy blonde.

John Watson could not find his soulmate for the life of him.

When he was old enough, his mother had eventually told him about soulmates, that this ‘special person’ would be the love of his life. That it happened to less than a quarter of the population on Earth. Like it was reassuring that his destiny was not his own and that he would only love one person deeply enough for it to mean something. And that this all depended on _hair colour._

What a bunch of crap.

And while all these doubts passed through his mind almost every day, he kept his hair long. Not down to his shoulder or anything, hell no. Just long enough so that his Fringe still kept its loose curl. Despite the odd looks thrown his way, he was reluctant to cut it. He didn’t like not being able to see it clearly when he looked in the mirror, even though it was a reminder of things that were out of his control. His Fringe was a part of him and he wouldn’t hide it.

It was a bit off-centre to the left, and he would sometimes brush it absently back from in front of his face when he was thinking or working. He would tug on it if he was worried, then would do his best to straighten it out again, since it would look weird if it was sticking out at a funny angle. He had tried to straighten it with his sister’s iron for a date once, but it ended up curling up again within a few hours.

It was when he was 15 that he got his first taste of tangible jealousy over his hair. One boy in his class – John had later forgotten his name after graduating, probably Arthur or something – had been giving him dirty looks for the first few weeks of school.

When he finally confronted John, John was slowly packing up his things and getting ready to go home.

“Oi, Watson.” John looked up as two boys walked over to him. John noticed that the other students had cleared out of the classroom.

John brushed his hair out of his eyes absently and looked up. “Yeah?”

The other boy looked at his friend and scowled, pointing his thumb at John. “This guy thinks he’s better than us, eh? You think you’re better than us? Just ‘cause of your stupid hair?”

“What? No,” said John, irritated. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Now the other boy looked angry. “Shut up, Watson. You’re the one with the problem. There’s nothing wrong with any of us _normal_ people. You’re just a freak.”

“No. I’m. Not.”

John suddenly found himself standing with his fists clenched tight. He didn’t want to fight these idiots, but they were making fun of him for no good reason and making him mad. They were just jealous, he had a soulmate out there, and judging by their mono-coloured hair, they didn’t. They were just bullies looking for a fight.

“Sure you are. Everyone knows that soulmates never find each other. And even if they do, they just shove it in our faces, talking about _true love_ and _destiny_ and all that bull. It’s the stupidest, grossest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s _not_ stupid!” John retorted. He could feel his eyes burning. There was no way he would cry in front of these losers. He wouldn’t allow it.

Hoping to prevent further comments, John scooped up his bag and made a dash for the door. On the way out he heard the other boy say, “That’s right freak, run away. We don’t want you here.”

His journey home was a blur, habit having been responsible for him not getting lost in his anger, which still burned through him. When he got home he slammed his bedroom door closed and threw his bag on the ground. John then vaulted himself onto his bed and pounded it in into submission while yelling his frustration. This went on for about a minute before he was up again and pacing a hole in his floor, trying to reel in his anger.

Luckily or unluckily, his father was home but he was in his and John’s mother’s room sorting some papers. He was always home when the kids finished school, working from early morning to noon then coming home to do paperwork. He could stay at his office, but he liked being at home much more than sitting at a desk. He heard John stomp in, run up the stairs to his bedroom and his subsequent rage. He gave John a few minutes to calm down before getting up and going to knock on his son’s door.

“John,” he said, resting his head against the door. “Are you alright?”

“Fine, Dad. Go away.” He sounded upset, which was no surprise.

“Would you like to talk about what happened?” His father prompted.

John took a deep breath. He loved his father, but he didn’t want to worry him about something so stupid. He already had to work so much as it was. But then again, John didn’t usually get time to talk to his father much other than at dinner, which wasn’t enough.

John walked slowly over to the door and opened it. He looked at his father, their heights only a few centimeter’s difference now that John had hit puberty. John’s father’s family were a short bunch compared to his mother’s, but John hoped that he wouldn’t end up being as short as his father. What if his soulmate ended up being taller than him? Having your wife be taller than you was weird. He didn’t know how his father stood it, even considering his father and mother were not soulmates, just a normal couple.

John pushed his fingers through his hair and went to sit down on his bed and his father sat down beside him.

“Now, what happened Johnny?” Asked his father, softly.

“It was stupid,” said John. “Just some boys in my year being idiots.” He brushed his Fringe absently.

“I see,” his father replied. He knew what those boys had probably said. But he only said to John, “Well, you know to ignore boys like that then. Don’t listen to whatever rubbish they spout about you. You’re better for it, even if it’s hard.”

“I know.”

John’s father ruffled his hair affectionately. “You’re a good boy, Johnny. Your mother and I are very proud of you.”

“Thanks, Dad,” said John, leaning into his father’s hand. He father smiled at him and nodded.

“Well, I had better get back to work,” he said. “You should get started on your school work too.”

“Alright.”

As his father left the room and closed the door with a slight click, John got out his homework. He started working, twirling his Fringe absently around his finger while reading part of a textbook. Thinking about his soulmate, he sighed inwardly.

_I hope I meet them soon._

                                                     

                                          

* * *

 

 

As it turned out, months turned into years, and eventually John decided to join the army to pay for his schooling. While his parents weren’t exactly poor, he knew how much a full medical school education would cost without scholarships. He didn’t mind the excitement, in fact he found that he thrived in it. Being a trauma surgeon was something John Watson was good at.

As per regulations, all soldiers would keep their hair very short, which John had been sad about in the beginning. He loved when his hair was long enough so that the darker lock would loosely curl, but he had no choice but to cut it. For the first time in his life his Fringe was barely noticeable.

Even so, while it was very short, is was stark against his sun-paled hair. No one ever talked about Fringes though. They were too busy saving lives and taking them. Trying to keep the peace in Afghanistan’s unforgiving heat.

And then one day, as most stories end, in the middle of the heat and the blood, John Watson was trying to save someone’s life just before his ended at the hands of a bullet. Or so he thought, as he lie face down and bleeding out in the sand, praying to live. And while he did recover eventually, the life he had known for years had ended with a medal, an honorable discharge and a shove out of the unforgiving doors of the hospital with a measly pension he could barely live off of.

His shoulder healed up fairly well, but he retained a persistent limp for which he had no explanation other than his mental instability. His therapist tried to help him, but to no avail. The only thing she said was to get moving and keep working at it. And to write a blog about his life. Like that was going to help. Nothing ever happened to him.

Then, after weeks in his depressing bedsit and long walks in the park made slower by his limp, he ran into an old friend.

                                                                                                

 

* * *

 

 

When John had told Mike that he was looking for somewhere nicer to live, he hadn’t expected him to know of someone who also needed a flatshare. It was a strange coincidence, but John went along with it, hoping something might come out of it.

As it turned out, _someone_ did.

Mike brought him to Bart’s, where they had met and been flatmates themselves for their years at Uni. John was hoping he wasn’t here to set him up with a student. He was nearing forty, and while he didn’t exactly mind younger people, he knew how medical students could be. After all, he had been one.

Mike brought them to one of the labs, and when John walked through the door his heart sped up a little.

The man who had been pipetting something into a Petri dish appeared to be very focused. John glanced at him briefly, then at the surrounding equipment.

“Well, bit different from my day,” said John amicably.

Mike laughed. “You’ve no idea!”

The man, now looking at something off to the side, spoke. “Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.”

“And what’s wrong with the landline?” Mike replied.

“I prefer to text.”

Mike checked his pockets. “Sorry. It’s in my coat.”

John fished in his back pocket and took out his own phone.

“Here. Use mine,” John supplied, looking over at him.

“Oh,” he said, “Thank you.”

“This is an old friend of mine, John Watson,” said Mike as the man walked over to them.

The man took John’s phone, typing quickly. John, now that he was closer, got a better look at him. The man was taller than John by a good many centimeters, with curly chestnut brown hair. John’s heart lurched unexpectedly. He stared at his hair. It looked very much like his Fringe. Even after all this time John remembered that when his hair was longer his Fringe had the same type of curl and colour.

 _How odd,_ John thought. His Fringe was still short from when his hair was cut short, but the colour was definitely more noticeable in his greying pale hair.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John was snapped out of his reverie when the stranger asked him the question. He refocused on him.

“Sorry?”

The man glanced up. “Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?”

Confused, John answered, “Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know?”

Before the man could reply, a woman bearing coffee walked in and he turned his head. And that’s when John saw. It was barely a flash, cleverly concealed beneath the rest of his natural fringe, but John saw a streak of pale greying blonde underneath the chestnut brown hair, parted to the right.

He paid no attention to the stranger’s conversation with the newly arrived woman, distracted by this fact. The man had a Fringe too.

“How do you feel about the violin?”

John snapped out of his daydream and looked round for the woman – Molly, he thought the man had said – only to find her leaving. “I’m sorry, what?”

The strange man elaborated, rolling his eyes. “I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

“You told him about me?” asked John, looking back at Mike.

Mike gave him a smug smile. “Not a word.”

“Then who said anything about flatmates?” John turned back to the strange man.

“I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t that difficult a leap.”

“How did you know about Afghanistan?” John asked, baffled.

“Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it.” The man wrapped a scarf around his neck and put on a, honestly, ridiculous coat. He walked towards John again.

“I’ll meet you there tomorrow evening at seven o’clock.” Walking past John he said, “Sorry, gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

“Is that it?” John was completely flabbergasted.

The man paused, and turned back to John. “Is that what?”

“We’ve only just met and we’re gonna go and look at a flat?”

“Problem?”

John smiled in disbelief. “We don’t know a thing about each other. I don’t know where we’re meeting. I don’t even know your name.”

The man looked at John closely, then spoke so quickly John had a hard time following.

“I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him. Possibly because he’s an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. You have a Fringe, and although it’s difficult to tell what hair style it is, the colouring suggests a dark shade, most likely chestnut brown. You obviously haven’t found your soulmate yet, but that’s hardly a surprise these days. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic – quite correctly, I’m afraid. That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?”

John looked down embarrassed and stunned, and rubbed his forehead and Fringe, a habit he wasn’t quite able to break even with his hair shorter.

The man observed him a moment longer before saying, “The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221 B Baker Street. Afternoon.” Then he disappeared through the doorway with a swish of his coat.

John, his mouth slightly ajar after Holmes’ words, turned silently towards Mike in disbelief.

“Yeah. He’s always like that,” said Mike.

 _Well,_ thought John. _Something finally happened to me._

                                                                                           

    

* * *

 

 

Before he knew it, John was moved into 221 B. It had all seemed like a blur of crime scenes, deductions, Italian food, chases, and arch-enemies that turned out to be one’s crazy flatmate’s brother. And of course, the killer cabbie. Considering John had just killed a man for someone he barely knew, he felt better than he had in months. Fully healed and ready for action, John had jumped at the chance to follow Sherlock on this case, which had ended up being a great success – at least to John and Scotland Yard.

Sherlock had been disappointed he would never know for sure if he had chosen the right pill, but John knew that the name ‘Moriarty’ still swam around in his mind for days after the case.

They found a rhythm in the next months of living together. Sherlock would make messes. John would tell him to clean them up. If he was in a good mood, Sherlock would only put up a small amount of resistance before cleaning up his things. If he was in a bad mood, they would row and John would have to step in and clean up after is five-year-old of a flatmate. Mrs. Hudson brought them biscuits and meals from time to time. And Sherlock never brought up their Fringes.

John knew by now that there was no way his detective flatmate had forgotten something so blaringly obvious, but John guessed he knew that if John wanted to talk about it, he would have mentioned it. He knew that Sherlock probably also knew that John knew he had a Fringe too. They just never talked about them. And life went on.

                                                                               

                

* * *

 

 

On a slow Tuesday morning, months later, John worked up the courage to finally ask about it. By then his hair had grown out a bit longer. John had been idly thinking about growing it out again after having had it short for so long in the army. What he didn’t know was how this conversation was going to affect their carefully balanced friendship irreversibly.

“Hey, Sherlock,” John said from his chair.

After a moment, Sherlock replied distractedly from the kitchen, “Hm? What John?”

John counted this as a win in and of itself since Sherlock tended to ignore him most of the time when he was concentrated on something. Just last week he had found his flatmate looking at and writing in his notebook about what had looked like a liver dissolving in acid. John had tried to ask him if he needed anything, since John was headed out to the store to get some food and had gotten no response, just like the last three times he’d asked. He was used to it by now.

John decided to just go for it. “Do you think you’ll ever find your soulmate?”

There was a heavy silence. John cursed himself inwardly for being tactless. Although Sherlock liked directness, this question seemed to catch him off-guard. And a Sherlock caught off-guard tended to close up and become spiteful.

John closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. _Such an idiot, Watson. Good going_.

He was then surprised when Sherlock padded silently to his own chair and sat down carefully in front of him. John heard the leather yield to Sherlock’s gangly body and opened his eyes to look at his flatmate. Sherlock, his eyes narrow in concentration, looked at John with his deduction face.

John didn’t know what Sherlock was seeing, but waited for him to respond, and eventually he did. At length.

“I hadn’t put much thought into soulmates since I was a child, as it would be foolish to believe that there was even a remotely small chance of finding the one person who, supposedly, was one’s other half. This is a concept I had entertained, then dismissed as illogical. How can hair colour control who you are destined to be with, when there are so many possibilities? How can any one person know for a fact that their supposed ‘soulmate’ is the person they are destined to spend the rest of their life with? For that to be determined by hair colour alone is simply idiotic.

“I have met people who’ve wasted their potential to look for someone who is supposedly their perfect match. Wasted _years,_ in fact. My mother and father thought they were soulmates. Turns out that didn’t mean a thing, when it came to loving another.” Sherlock paused, tearing his eyes away from John’s face for the first time throughout his monologue and brushing his natural fringe carefully to the right. “My mother was devastated when she found out about the affair. My father left us and my mother raised Mycroft and I by herself. I was six at the time.”

It was John’s turn now to be caught off-guard. Never before had he heard Sherlock talk about his family. He probably only knew about Mycroft because of the elder Holmes’ nosey nature. John was completely struck dumb by this revelation.

At the back of his mind, however, he knew that useless apologies would only tick Sherlock off. So he waited, hoping Sherlock might continue.

Sherlock looked up again, his face a mask, seemingly uninterpretable to John. “So you can probably see why the idea of a soulmate no longer holds much meaning for me.”

Even after such a short time knowing him, John could read into what Sherlock wasn’t saying. That his mask hid the fact that he did indeed care, even though he might think that caring was never useful. John could see that Sherlock had probably been telling himself this for years, a childhood dream crushed by the harsh reality of love and loss and hurt. Because who didn’t dream of true love as a child?

“Well,” John said, “It does mean something to me.”

In that moment, Sherlock’s mask fell a little. John saw briefly the flicker of what might have been desperate hope before it was quashed by blankness again.

“It’s something special that not everyone gets to be a part of. The only few that see it as the extraordinary gift it is can appreciate it.” John cleared his throat. “I’ll concede that it isn’t something that just happens. You have to work at it, together. Just because someone’s your soulmate doesn’t mean they automatically become like you and vice versa. They’re still people. They just have something in common to help them along.”

John held his breath, waiting for the snarky reply. But it never came. Instead, Sherlock carded his fingers through his hair slowly, then as if afraid of damaging it, he gingerly separated his Fringe from the rest of his hair. John got a good look at it, thinking to the first time he had caught a glimpse of it. His heart raced.

It looked a lot like John’s hair. Even down to the greys it now sported.

He blinked a few times, not quite believing what he was seeing. He thought back to when he had his hair long, how his Fringe had been thick and silky when he had carded his fingers through the chestnut brown streak. He wondered if Sherlock’s hair felt the same.

Without meaning to he then found himself standing in front of Sherlock’s chair, an arm’s length away from his head. Sherlock was looking up at him now, blank look faded away to reveal slight bewilderment and disbelief. John reached out slowly, scared Sherlock might move away. He stayed where he was, watching John intently, allowing him to come close.

As soon as John’s fingers touched Sherlock’s head, he knew. He stroked his fingers gingerly through the curly chestnut locks, memories of the past coming to the forefront of his mind. He remembered all the times he had been reading his medical texts, essays, books, and feeling the curl of his Fringe beneath his fingers. A habit, a lifeline that had kept him sane through all the insanity, that he had a soulmate out there waiting for him, that he wouldn’t be alone forever. He noted absently that Sherlock seemed to lean into the touch. Then it hit him.

Sherlock was his soulmate. _Sherlock_ bloody _Holmes_ was his soulmate.

All of a sudden he was on his knees in front of Sherlock’s chair, staring blankly out into space, fingers still carding though his flatmate’s hair.  He refocused on Sherlock, realising what he must look like, and pulled his fingers away. Sherlock closed his eyes at the loss of contact.

A beat passed and John was about to move away when a small inhale preceded by those cupid’s-bow lips moving stopped him, as he heard a small, “Don’t stop.”

Sherlock’s voice – John had a hard time swallowing a large lump that had found itself lodged in his throat. He stared at Sherlock a moment longer, almost thinking he had hallucinated those words. Then Sherlock opened his pale eyes and stared into John’s deep blues. John almost choked.

“Please,” whispered Sherlock, face full of emotion John couldn’t hope to decipher. So John brought his hand up again, and as gentle as he could he stroked Sherlock’s hair.

He felt more than saw Sherlock’s shoulders relax, then tense up again as he raised his hand to John’s hair. Placing his hand as if expecting to be burned, John felt Sherlock’s long, slender fingers brush through his short hair from back to front, keeping it smoothed down. It felt… really nice.

“It’s been so long,” John found himself saying, continuing to stroke Sherlock’s hair. “I’ve had my hair short for so long, I thought I’d forgotten what it felt like.” John’s hand trailed down from Sherlock’s hair to cup his cheek.

“I never thought… the odds were so slim I thought I’d _never_ find… But you...” Sherlock seemed to be at a loss for words, which was a first for him. John could see all the thoughts whirring and re-arranging themselves in his head, his Mind Palace, Sherlock had once told him.

John leaned his head forward until their foreheads were resting against each other. John wasn’t sure what to do, or how Sherlock would react to such close proximity. Something in his heart clicked into place.

“You’re my soulmate, Sherlock Holmes.”

This close, John could instantly see Sherlock’s eyes as they welled up, becoming sheen and sparkling. Like two rare jewels, beautiful and dazzling.

“I,” said Sherlock, voice cracking. “You... John.”

John felt as his own eyes started burning, blurring his vision a little. “Yes.”

Sherlock took a shuddering breath, and when he spoke his voice was fairly steady.

“And you are mine, John Watson.”

John’s heart lurched, and he felt a tear roll down his cheek as he closed his eyes. He started to lean back, but then Sherlock grabbed him around his back and pulled him close. At first, John thought Sherlock would outright kiss him, but instead he wrapped his long arms even more around the doctor’s body, bringing him in as close as their positions would allow. John put his arms around the detective’s body, and both men held on for dear life.

John was openly crying now, silent tears falling down his face, as he felt Sherlock burrow his face into John’s neck. He felt his collar dampening under Sherlock’s face, but he didn’t mind one bit. It was worth it, being this close to the person you had been searching for your whole life, only to find out they had been right beside you. John sniffed and tightened his hold even more on the detective.

They stayed like that for an imperceptible amount of time. Eventually, it was John who loosened his grip first, pulling away gently. Sherlock followed suit, rubbing his face with the palms of his hands. John grabbed a tissue box – although how it had gotten there was a mystery, probably due to Mrs. Hudson – and used a couple to blow his nose and wipe his face, offering some to Sherlock as well with a watery smile. Sherlock returned his watery smile with a small one of his own, disappearing as soon as it had come.

John took a deep breath through his mouth and exhaled loudly when he felt mopped up enough.

“Well, now that that’s sorted, what now?”

Sherlock looked over to the mantle, a lost look on his face. “I… I don’t know, John. My experience in this area is markedly lacking.”

“We’ll go at your pace, then. We can do whatever you want. I won’t mind.”

Sherlock looked back at him, confused. “But you’re not… you don’t like…”

John interrupted him. “I do. I like you, Sherlock. And for the record, I’m not gay. I’m bisexual.”

His soulmate – _I can say that now –_ blinked, then slowly a smile broke through the confusion. “Then… You wouldn’t mind if… I kissed you?”

“Only if you don’t mind if I kiss you,” John retorted.

“I don’t,” said Sherlock, then leaned in and pressed his lips to John’s.

                                                                                                

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading. I hope it wasn't too cheesey ;)  
> Let me know if there's anything weird going on with spelling and such, or if you liked something in particular. I have no beta so all mistakes are my own stupidity. Comments and Kudos make my day! <3


End file.
